


Human Rituals

by Shiny_Red_Cape



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grocery Shopping, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 12:52:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Red_Cape/pseuds/Shiny_Red_Cape
Summary: The Bishops celebrate Mabon in proper Wiccan fashion, but for Diana there will always be something faintly tainted by Gillian and Oxford and the soured relationships with the coven there. In the end it’s Matthew that suggests Thanksgiving – a nod to her American heritage – as a holiday that could be a symbol in their own lives together.Tumblr prompt response: Matthew and Diana in a packed grocery store.





	Human Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> This may not be exactly what was asked, but it's my take on it because I feel like him freaking out would be a little out of character. It was a cute idea though so I played with it a bit. Hope you enjoy.

Time is a capricious creature, and the pairing a vampire and a time-walker does nothing to ease the relationship. It reconnects Matthew with its passage in a way that hasn’t been true since his human life. For all Diana may open time as if it were a book to rifle through, time does pass. No matter where she spends it, the balance of her life continues to dwindle.

(It’s too dangerous a thought to entertain too often - the beginning, middle and end. The before and after that will be marked with no less importance than the holy books he followed for so long)

For now it manifests in a fascination of the mundane domesticity that can be found in living. The little miracle of existing found between the larger marvels that so often rupture their lives. Diana is attached to these human rituals as much as she is her creature heritage, a hallmark of the time spent forging a path in the world beyond magic.

The Bishops celebrate Mabon in proper Wiccan fashion, but for Diana there will always be something faintly tainted by Gillian and Oxford and the soured relationships with the coven there. In the end it’s Matthew that suggests Thanksgiving – a nod to her American heritage – as a holiday that could be a symbol in their own lives together. So they don’t go to Madison, opting instead for a property in Matthew’s portfolio and some time away for the two of them.

The tapestry of scent the living bring is nothing new, two lives and hundreds of lifetimes layered with blood and battlegrounds and crowded streets in years without sanitation has given most vampires more than enough practice to withstand the mass of humanity flooding through the large supermarket that holiday.

And yet.

This is not the market at Oxford, pungent but open-air, and this space is modern in every sense. Overlaying the confused jumble of smell is the oppressive addition of what Matthew privately terms ‘the new age’. The increasing burden of the last two centuries is found in the artificial wares, from the bleaches of the cleaning section that struck him upon entry, to the sickly artificial candles displayed in the bin a few feet away. It’s the myriad of body sprays and personal care that humans like to cover themselves in that do nothing but make the stale sweat underneath more noticeable to his senses. It’s been a long time since he’s been in a place so concentrated with products, and all this warring with the acrid tang of the hairdressers, the burnt grounds of the Starbucks, and the fat of frying burgers and fries all housed under the same roof. It presses down on him, heavy and intrusive, and he’d complain of a headache if he weren’t beyond such things. His glare cleaves into the crowds, creating a smooth space around him in the stream of people. For all he wants Diana to have these human things, this has not been his brightest idea.

As if conjured, she appears at the end of the aisle. Arms burdened with bags of walnuts and packages of blackberries, her approach brings with it that scent of hedgerows, of ancient, fresh things that belong to an older time. The relief is palpable, and he allows himself a moment as she reaches him to pull her closer and bury his face in her neck. The dull pulse under her skin quiets the cornucopia of sounds, close enough that she’s all that fills his senses. He breathes deeply, entirely unnecessary to the efficiency of his body but precious in other ways, and they stand frozen a moment.

He steps back reluctantly, their little oasis overrun once again by the present.

“Everything alright?” she asks, a light frown pulling at her forehead.

“Just fine,” he replies, relieving her of the goods with one arm and catching her hand with his other.

Time to go.


End file.
